


charcoal on oxblood

by nightbloomings



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Artist AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2059431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomings/pseuds/nightbloomings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck is an artist, a painter, a <em>really</em> good one. He's got the critics and the pundits and the glitterati—and fuck, does he hate that word—wrapped around each of his fingers, and the best part of it all is that they don't even know his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	charcoal on oxblood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ill_burn_that_bridge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ill_burn_that_bridge/gifts).



> artist au, where chuck is a Big Deal going by a name that isn't his, and where raleigh is trying to regain his foothold after the loss of his brother. the idea & all the great details came from [illburnthatbridge](http://illburnthatbridge.tumblr.com), she just let me fiddle around with them ♥
> 
> also a note about the tags—this is basically pre-slash because this is a chaleigh verse, hence the pairing tag, but there isn't... really any pre-slash in the fic, so i didn't include that particular tag.

Chuck's close enough to the canvas that the smell of the paint twinges in his nose. It's in these final stages of a piece that the small details come to the fore, and it's intense, focused work. To this point, it's freeform and fluid, as if the paint dictates what happens. Now, though, Chuck has to wrestle back control, to bring everything to a finishing point. He doesn't like to edit the process, and that's why he hones in on the details—they're too small for the average person, a casual observer, to notice, but together they turn a haphazard riot of colour and shadow into an amalgam that looks like it was planned and guided and crafted from the start.

Chuck is showing at the Loccent Gallery at the weekend, and this piece is his last submission, of three. He always keeps his number small, regardless of the nature of the show—and frankly even three feels like too many, but luckily for Tendo Choi, the gallery's curator, Chuck was partway through a painting when he agreed. His paintings are large and complex, and his techniques involved—were he able to show as many as eight or ten pieces as many others do, it wouldn't be worthwhile—and he wouldn't be worthy of the reputation he's earned for himself.

He finishes defining the edge of a swoop of viridian and arches back—that particular section seems finished. He comes down from the stepladder he's set up in front of the canvas and takes up a point about ten feet away.

"What d'you reckon, Max?" he says over his shoulder. Max is sprawled on the chaise near the loft window; he lifts his head when Chuck says his name, and cocks it to the side before snuffling softly. "Right—too soon to tell."

Chuck wipes his hands on the rag that's fed through his belt loop but his hands are still stained with paint, and will be—the colours never fully fade, because he doesn't allow them time to. The vermillion and Prussian blue under his fingernails are as much a part of him as anything else.

He sets his palette and brush down on his work bench and claps twice, sharply. He doesn't need to call him, Max knows what the sound means, and he pushes himself off the chaise after the first clap.

"Couple turns 'round the block oughta do it," Chuck says to Max, as he stoops to clip the leash to the dog's collar.

It's a ritual of sorts. Sometimes Chuck doesn't need the distance in order to tell whether a piece is done, but often he does.

Chuck's loft is situated in the heart of the local artist community, though it’s by accident. When he moved in, it was before his work sold with any regularity and it was the only part of the city where he could rent a cheap enough space, large enough to serve as a flat and a studio. Chuck has always worked where he lives, and lives where he works, because he isn’t about to dictate his inspiration or lose it to a cross-city commute.

When Chuck had moved in, the area had been grimy, rundown, and largely forgotten. It was populated with smoke shops, liquor stores and dodgy pizza-by-the-slice joints—and one Chinese takeout. But then gentrification took root and the area changed and built up around Chuck, and the old buildings were stripped down to their structure and given new glass facades. Chuck can afford to move now if he wants to, but he's well-attuned to his loft, and it’s not as though he spends a great deal of time outside of it anyway.

As he's standing at an intersection, waiting for the light to turn, his attention focuses on the side of the building opposite. He passes it nearly every day, and it’s a perfect microcosm for the neighbourhood. The building is old, maybe a hundred years or more, and the brickwork is cracked and rundown. The deep oxblood brick is scorched in charcoal, likely scars of a fire there ages ago. It’s beautiful in its way and its story, sure, but less than a foot above the largest scorch mark is a gaudy white and neon green sign for some sort of takeout salad restaurant around the corner. And like that the visual is ruined by the disharmony.

Chuck isn't a Luddite or anything, but it's all so artlessly done and slapdash that it bothers him. The flash of it all erodes any character the neighbourhood had before.

Chuck and Max come up on the Loccent Gallery before long. It's fairly small and Tendo is always rather selective in the artists he chooses for his shows—which is another reason Chuck makes himself available when he can. Tendo knows what he likes and he likes Chuck's work, and he lets Chuck dictate which pieces he shows each time, and best of all, he doesn’t try to dissect anything.

So it's no surprise that his name is front and centre on the large plate glass window at the front of the gallery. It's a space normally used to advertise the headliner of an upcoming show, but usually when Chuck's walked past, there's an example piece of art in the window. Not so in this case, however. Instead, the display is just large, crisp, white block lettering that cast a shadow of his name on the white backdrop.

Kallias Apollo.

As far as Tendo or anyone else is concerned, this _is_ Chuck's name. Chuck's never signed his own name to a piece of art; it was a conscious decision made even before he had any sort of name recognition whatsoever.

The critics and the pundits love it, drool over it—they gobble it up, and for them it adds to the mystique. How tortured and deep and introspective Apollo must be, they all muse, when to Chuck, the name is the best lie ever told.

Because there is a meaning, it’s not a random choice of names. Kallias Apollo—destroyer of beauty. It’s a direct correlation to his approach and his technique: to take beautiful, but average, things and wear them down and away until they manage a sort of poignancy that only he can draw out of them.

The commentators' psychobabble isn't worth the paper it's printed on, or the web space it's typed on, but Chuck ignores it either way—he creates because he wants to, and paints the way he does because the only one who can manipulate his art in the way he does. It’s not arrogance, it's fact—he's yet to see a single artist achieve anything similar.

Hell, no one's even come close to cracking the meaning of the pseudonym.

Instead, they wonder about his background, his history, his education—and he lets them craft the fantasy, because while the truth is less sexy, it's far more impressive. He wasn't a depressed, dark child; he wasn't ignored or outcast. He didn't pay thousands for an education, either. He's just the kid of a widowed air force man, who took up painting as a hobby to fill the time when his dad was on deployment.

Chuck values the distance and anonymity the name affords him, too. He's attended every show he's been a part of, but as far as the glitterati—and fuck, does he hate that term—are concerned, Apollo's never shown his face. It’s been easy to maintain too. He represents himself, and only corresponds by email and the occasional phone call. He has a small group of techs who deliver his pieces to galleries before shows, if the gallery doesn't organise collection itself.

Even Tendo, whom Chuck has shown with the most, has never met him.

Chuck knows who he is, though, and he can see Tendo inside the gallery. He's not hard to miss, with his jet black rockabilly hair, chambray shirt, and red suspenders. He's standing with his back to the window, talking to some blond guy. They're facing one of the white, blank walls and Tendo’s gesturing towards it as if describing a layout with his hands. Chuck tries to get a look at the other guy's face, to see if he maybe recognises him from others shows, but the angle isn't right.

Either way, Chuck figures as he carries on his way with Max, he'll see him at the show at the weekend if the guy's on the slate.

•••

"So you're planning on how many?"

Tendo squares his hips and faces the blank gallery wall head-on, and Raleigh looks between Tendo and the white space, trying to visualise whatever Tendo is.

"Um," Raleigh starts and clears his throat. "I was thinking something like eight… maybe ten?"

Tendo nods and lifts his arms, holding his hands out as if to frame the wall.

"Yeah, yeah, that'll work. I mean, this whole section is yours, Becket, so bring as many as you want and we'll figure out the placement later."

Raleigh can't help but frown a little. The 'whole section' part feels intimidating, like it's too much space, and too much focus.

"Tendo, you sure you want to give me a whole wall, man? I mean, I'm grateful, don't get me wrong, but…" he pauses, exhaling as he rubs at the back of his neck. "I'm not sure, I don't want any handouts or anything."

Yancy would've never accepted one when placing Raleigh in a show, from Tendo or anyone else, and now that he's gone, and Raleigh's representing himself, it's important that he keeps up the same ethic.

"Raleigh," Tendo says, turning away from the wall to face him. "Kid, our friendship's got nothin' to do with this—even if I didn't know you from a guy in the street, I'd still bend over backwards to get your shit on my walls." Then he laughs and smacks Raleigh on the arm. "So to speak, of course."

Raleigh chuckles, shaking his head. Trust a guy like Tendo to bust an awkward situation wide open.

"Seriously though," Tendo continues. "Your photos? They're _good_ , and they fit the theme of this show _perfectly_."

Raleigh levels his eyes at Tendo and cocks an eyebrow, because he's still sceptical.

"Have you seen our headliner's stuff before? Name's Kallias Apollo."

Raleigh scoffs. "That’s seriously his name?"

"Who knows. It's what he goes by, at least." Tendo reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "The guy's basically a ghost—never attends his own shows, never does press. No one's ever met him, not even yours truly," he says as he swipes across his phone a few times. "Here, look."

Raleigh takes the phone from Tendo. The artwork in the picture is clearly huge, and a whole mess of colour, marred by black blotches and some sort of texturing—it’s hard to make it out, but it looks like crosshatching almost. Raleigh swipes through a few more pictures, and by the time he reaches the last, he's fairly sure he gets the reasoning behind the moniker.

"Tendo, this is a whole other league, man, c'mon." Raleigh hands the phone back, shaking his head. Maybe before, years ago, when Raleigh’d commanded a room of art-types simply by setting foot into it, but now?

"You’re wrong, but whatever, doesn't matter." Tendo pockets the phone again and claps Raleigh on the shoulder. "You promised me eight or ten, and you're gonna bring me that many, because I'm telling you, it's gonna be _great_."

Raleigh leaves the gallery soon after, heading off and feeling a little aimless. He's got six photos he's decided on showing for sure, but the last few are going to be a struggle—and now that he's seen the calibre of the show's headliner, he's not sure that's likely to change at all before Saturday.

As he's standing on a corner, waiting for a break in the traffic, Raleigh takes a look around him. He'd been in the neighbourhood before, especially when he'd been more active in the art scene years ago, before Yancy's death. His style had been a lot different back then—paint was his medium, over film. He still paints now and then, but it's all too much of a reminder of everything that'd been a part of life before. There's a certain detachment in photography that Raleigh is identifying with now—less tactile, less malleable, more restrictions to what he can make of a scene before him. It's a challenge, and it's about capturing moments now, instead of creating them.

As he's looking round, Raleigh spots the wall of the building behind him. It's all gorgeous, deep red brick, aged and authentic, and the texture is perfect. He pulls away from the corner, absently reaching for his camera as he gets closer to the wall. There's an odd pattern of charcoal marks streaking across the brick, as if a fire had licked its way up the wall at some point, however many years ago. Raleigh takes a quick glance at the building as a whole—maybe the entire thing burned down save for the one wall, or maybe the damage had been restricted to this one section—it’s impossible to tell, and it’s the open-endedness of the story that grips Raleigh as much as the play of texture. And then he spots a small spot of colour amongst the brick—a pale purple, and he can't quite get his camera ready fast enough. It’s a small clutch of flowers, it doesn't matter what kind, growing through a crack in the wall, against the brick and the scorch marks.

And as he frames a series of shots with different angles, different compositions, he feels a bit better about the issue of the impending show.

•••

When the show comes round on Saturday, Chuck slips into his usual routine. He circles the gallery, slowly, sipping idly at whatever glass of alcohol he can get his hands on—some sort of red wine, this time. It’s not about evaluating the other artists' work, but rather it’s about noting people's reactions to his own work.

His three pieces are hung against the back wall of the gallery, dominating the room from whichever angle one stands at. They're roped off, but it doesn't stop most viewers from leaning in and looking closely. Sometimes they linger so long it's as if they're examining each brush stroke like they'll be able to work backwards and unlock Chuck's—or Apollo’s—secrets. Of course that's not how it works. There's nothing to decode. If there were, someone would've cracked it by now and started churning out imitations. All there is, is the process, and that's not decipherable.

Chuck draws a little closer to the middle painting, pulling his black knit cap further down his head out of instinct. No one knows he's the artist, but the art community is relatively small, and he doesn't need people to begin recognising him either way.

A few people are taking notes as they study the piece, chatting amongst themselves in hushed, haughty tones. They throw around buzzwords like  _colourplay_ and _dystopian_ , all of which presuppose and imply a sense of forethought that is, in reality, entirely absent from Chuck's process as he works.

After a moment, that batch cycles on, and their space is filled by another set just like them. But this time, Chuck feels someone come up beside him, still a fair distance from the paintings.

“Kallias Apollo,” the guy says, his tone plain, like a statement.

Chuck doesn’t spare a glance, instead keeping his eyes forward; it’s not the first time someone’s unknowingly talked to him about his own work.

“Come again?”

“The artist’s name, it’s Kallias Apollo.”

“Is it.”

From the corner of his eye, Chuck sees the guy nod. “Pretty fitting, when you consider the technique.”

“Oh?” Chuck asks, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back the smirk tugging at his lips. “How d’you figure?”

“It’s like that line from Fight Club, ‘I wanted to destroy something beautiful.’ I mean, I prefer the book myself, but anyways, the narrator has this line where he admits to just wanting to destroy something beautiful that he’d never really have, something intangible, and…” The guy's voice trails off into a slight cough.

Chuck swallows. He’d picked the pseudonym for its roots in Greek mythology, but he knew the reference too. It was the closest anyone had ever come to working out the meaning.

He clears his throat and takes a quick sip of his wine. “Sure, mate—whatever y’say,” he says, walking away before the guy can respond.

When he’s a far enough distance away, Chuck looks back at the guy, who’s moved to the third painting. And then Chuck realises he recognises him, but he can’t place from where; it’s right at the fore of his mind but he can’t narrow it down in any way—tall, blond, attractive, and that’s as far as he can get.

Chuck carries on around the gallery, picking up a new glass of wine on the way. He stops in front of the wall diagonal to his own paintings; it’s filled with photographs of varying sizes, arranged in an alternating pattern with some brightly coloured and slightly washed out, others more desaturated with higher contrast. Chuck sighs instinctively, looking at them—they’re good, objectively speaking, but ultimately uninteresting. He’s never fully grasped the impact of photography as an artistic medium. Sure, some photographers are able to manipulate a moment with something striking and unique but so many others are pedestrian and uninspired and little more than point-and-shoot. These photographs are clearly more than that, with their composition and the thought for colour, but there’s still only so much to take away from them.

And then Chuck realises he’s standing in front of the wall he’d seen Tendo near the other day, when he’d been speaking with… a blond.

He looks back over his shoulder, and now from this angle, he realises the guy who’d called the meaning of his pseudonym is the same blond he’d seen with Tendo. Chuck whips around and looks for the artist tag on the photographs and—

 _Raleigh Becket_.

Well, shit.

Raleigh Becket had been a big deal, years ago, when Chuck was only just beginning to gain traction as Kallias Apollo. He’d done paintings then, however, and they were… well, amazing, really. He’d been a big name for a reason. Chuck had never met him; he’d had nowhere near the cred to get slotted into a show alongside Becket back then, but he still knew his work well.

And then his brother, Yancy—a well-known artist rep in his own right—died, and Raleigh’d just… disappeared.

Frankly, Chuck had all but forgotten about the brothers until now—five years is a long time after all, and a lot has changed.

Including Raleigh’s approach to art, apparently.

Chuck moves in a little closer, pushing past the small but steadily-growing crowd. Word must be getting around of the photographer’s identity, he figures, and he takes a closer look at some of the photographs. His eyes are drawn to the one in the middle of the arrangement, to the familiar shade of oxblood, marred by swaths of charcoal. The values are distorted and the contrast cranked up, but Chuck recognises it as the damaged brick wall on the side of the old building he passes so often. Only, looking at it now, he sees something he doesn’t recognise—a shock of lilac, made to stand out against the muted background. Flowers. Chuck had never noticed them before, but there they are all the same.

In looking at the same subject, Chuck had zeroed in on and had been distracted by the garish neon sign, whereas Raleigh had ignored it and cropped it out of the composition, focusing instead on the flowers that Chuck had fully overlooked.

Yes, it was just a bloody brick wall, but the principle… that Raleigh still had this sort of eye, this sort of talent, and he was wasting it on such a stale medium. Raleigh’s skill for painting plus this aesthetic, well… Chuck would have a run for his money, then.

And then he turns, scanning the crowd for the flop of blond hair. Raleigh’s still lingering near Chuck’s paintings, talking with a man in pants in a colour that can only be described as _prison jumpsuit orange._ Chuck recognises him as the society reporter for the local newspaper. He strides over and taps Raleigh on the shoulder, flashing a wide, saccharine grin at the reporter.

Becket can thank him for the rescue later.

“You’re Raleigh Becket,” Chuck says arms cross over his chest, when Raleigh turns to face him.

The corner of Raleigh’s mouth hitches up slowly, and Chuck can’t help but watch as it happens. “Was wondering if you’d figure it out.”

“I don’t get it—why are you hiding?”

“How do you figure I’m ‘hiding?’”

Chuck sighs and gestures vaguely back towards Raleigh’s photographs. “Doing this, instead of what you’re best at, what you’re known for.”

Raleigh huffs out a laugh and looks at Chuck for a beat before answering. “Probably what I'm known for right now is dropping off the face of the Earth. So I switched mediums—lot’s changed, y’know.” He pauses and sips the drink he’d picked up sometime between now and their earlier encounter. “And at least my name’s on them.”

It takes a moment, but when the realisation of what Raleigh’s implying settles in, Chuck frowns. Deeply.

“You think _I’m_ hiding?”

“Well, I’m willing to bet your name isn’t actually Kallias Apollo. Maybe it’s the knit cap, I don’t know…” It could’ve been an insult, but Raleigh’s expression is so damn easy, it doesn’t come across as one, somehow.

“You think I’m…” Chuck waves a hand at the space behind Raleigh. “That guy?”

Raleigh looks over his shoulder at Chuck’s paintings, and when he looks back, he laughs. “Take it this is the first time you’ve been ID’d?”

Chuck opens his mouth, ready to snap at Raleigh, but the urge fades quickly, and he scoffs—he's got to give the guy credit. “Does that really surprise you?” he says, nodding in the direction of the rest of the gallery, and the people filling it.

Raleigh quickly scans the room and then shakes his head, smiling a little. “Fair enough,” he says quietly, as though he's afraid someone might overhear him.

Chuck sighs and tugs his cap a little lower. “Look,” he says. “Why the switch? You were… your paintings were something else, back then.”

Raleigh nods slowly, then shrugs a little. “Felt like I needed to change things up, I guess. Plus this is what suits me now. Can’t really dictate the way you get inspired, right?”

Chuck frowns a little, chewing on his lower lip. “No, suppose that’s true… but, I just—it’s so ‘big picture,’ y’know? Photography, I mean. And like, you’re intent on capturing this one fleeting moment that means so little in the end—drop of piss in the toilet bowl, right?”

Raleigh’s left eyebrow quirks up, and then he shakes his head. “Not sure I get the analogy, but… I disagree,” he says and then he smiles, slow and wide and warm, and— _bloody hell_ , Chuck thinks. “Every moment is fleeting, sure, but that makes every one worth capturing in one way or another, if you frame it right. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since… before, it’s that.”

Fuck. Now Chuck sounds like a right asshole. Which is what he is, fine, but Raleigh had to go and smile like _that_ , and…

“Don’t worry about me,” Raleigh says, before Chuck can think of what to say next. And then he claps a hand on Chuck’s shoulder, and moves past him.

“I’m not—" Chuck starts, turning after Raleigh, but Raleigh’s swallowed in the crowd, and Chuck’s not sure what he’d say even if he did chase after him anyway.

So he goes to find something a little stronger to drink.

 

The crowd thins eventually, with people scattering to their late dinner reservations and their after parties. Chuck is still hovering near his paintings, nursing the last of his scotch in its plastic cup, when he hears a faint sound.

Almost like a click.

He turns quickly, looking around him in all directions, then sees Raleigh at his eight o’clock.

Alright, not just a click—a shutter click.

Raleigh’s standing there with his camera clutched in the middle of his chest and a crooked smile on his face.

“Hey now,” Chuck says, closing the distance between him and Raleigh. “You just go around snapping candids of strangers?”

“Oh, we’re strangers, are we? Would’ve thought cracking the secret identity would bump me up to acquaintance, at least.”

Chuck scoffs. Not the sort of attitude he would’ve expected from the guy, but that’s not a bad thing. “You don’t know my real name, so no, not quite.”

Raleigh nods, as if considering. “Well?”

Chuck looks at Raleigh from the corner of his eye for a moment, then answers. “Chuck Hansen.”

Raleigh looks down at his camera and messes with a few buttons, then he slips the lens cap on. “Something to be said,” he says eventually.

“How’s that?”

“In the destruction of the beauty of the myth of _the_ Kallias Apollo—my kind of irony.”

Chuck feels an instant heat in his core, up his neck, across his cheeks, and he takes a few large steps even closer to Raleigh. “You listen here, mate—if you tell _anyone_ —”

“No, no,” Raleigh interrupts, shaking his head and holding up a hand. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean, it’s kind of neat, working out the mystery of it, that’s all.”

Chuck can’t help his bitten-off laugh. _Neat._

“I get it,” Raleigh continues. “The value in not everybody knowing who you are. Doesn’t really matter what the motivation is—I get it.”

Chuck narrows his eyes at Raleigh, considering, but really, the guy doesn’t look like he’s got one malicious strand of DNA in his makeup, so he just nods and says, “Alright, then.”

Raleigh slips his camera into his bag and readjusts the strap’s position on his shoulder. He’s smiling that same wide smile when he looks back at Chuck.

“I’ll see you at your next one, Kallias.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://rahleighs.tumblr.com) if you want!


End file.
